Somebody's Lady Read online

  But she had been wistful about Zachary, and that had answered her earlier question. Yes, working with him was a mistake, one she might regret for a long time. But she was stuck. The partners had agreed to this case with the stipulation that Zachary contribute as much as possible. He had already rearranged his own schedule to accommodate this, and he was clearly looking forward to the work.

  And, even knowing that it was a mistake, even knowing that she might have to pay for it in ways she hadn't experienced in more than ten years, she couldn't find the desire within herself to send him away. She hadn't been able to turn down his offer of help yesterday, and she didn't want to turn it down today.

  "So … tell me about Carrie's children," she said, deliberately turning the conversation to business.

  "They're with her parents. I met Dutch and Ruth yesterday afternoon, and they picked them up from Social Services. Del's family moved to Texas a few years ago. They're supposedly on their way to Nashville now to claim the body. I don't know if they'll want the kids, but to be on the safe side, the Morrises are applying for legal guardianship. I think it's best if the children stay here with the grandparents they know rather than go off to Texas with people they've met only a few times in their lives."

  "I hope that won't be a problem. I don't think it would do Carrie much good if the Lewises got custody." She flipped open the legal pad on her desk. "I've got calls in to several psychiatrists who specialize in the treatment and study of abused women. One in particular has testified in several of these trials. His credentials are very impressive, and he's good on the stand. I'm hoping we can get him down here for Carrie."

  "So what's first?"

  "We've got to get copies of the police and autopsy reports. I want to talk to the prosecutor before the arraignment, and afterward we'll interview the Lewises' families, neighbors, Del's co-workers and former employers, his drinking buddies—anyone and everyone who knew them. First, though, I want to talk to Carrie again."

  She removed her coat from the tiny closet behind the door, then returned to her desk for her briefcase. Zachary wasn't carrying one today, and she asked him about it as they walked to the elevator.

  "Yesterday's the first time I've used a briefcase in months," he replied with a grin. "There's not much need for one at home. No one's impressed by it, and my office, with everything I need, is only a few minutes from every place in town. But just in case, I keep a notebook and pen in my pocket."

  She never went anywhere without her briefcase. It was her lifeline. Sometimes—like today—it was so stuffed with work that simply carrying it was a chore. The strain on her muscles made Zachary's way of doing business sound more appealing than it should.

  Lately, she thought with dismay as they walked along the sidewalk together, too many inappropriate things appealed to her. Like throwing away everything she had accomplished and dumping all the possessions she had accumulated and starting over again. Like making that new start someplace where no one had ever heard of the Townsends or the Gibsons.

  Like making that new start with Zachary.

  She scowled at the idea and continued scowling until they were seated across from Carrie in the interview room. There the scowl faded as she gave her client a critical once-over. The bruises were vivid and ugly, and the swelling made her face look heavier than it actually was. What kind of force had it taken to do such damage? Beth wondered with revulsion. What kind of man could do that to his own wife?

  She knew the popular excuses for such behavior—insecurity, immaturity, jealousy, inadequacy—but she didn't understand any of them. Plenty of insecure, inadequate men managed to marry and have normal relationships without ever resorting to physical violence.

  She knew, too, that alcohol was often a contributing factor. Del Lewis had been drunk when he'd beaten Carrie Sunday night. He'd been sleeping off the effects of a full day's drinking when she killed him. Had he merely been a mean drunk? Was it the liquor that had caused him to batter his wife, or had that been just an excuse? Had he gotten drunk simply to make his behavior more acceptable? After all, society routinely forgave behavior in an intoxicated man that would be strictly prohibited in a sober one.

  "Zachary and I are going to handle your case together, Carrie," Beth announced. "Your arraignment is tomorrow afternoon. That's when you'll be formally charged with Del's death. I'll ask the judge to release you without bail, but I don't believe he will. If he refuses, you'll have to stay in jail until the trial, which might be only a few weeks or as long as several months."

  "Will I ever get to see my kids?" Carrie's voice sounded distant and detached.

  "We'll see about arranging a visit sometime next week."

  "Are they all right?" she whispered mournfully.

  "I saw them yesterday," Zachary replied. "They'll be fine. They're with your folks now. You know they'll take good care of them."

  Beth pulled a small tape recorder from her briefcase, checked the tape, then set it on the table. "We need to know about your marriage, Carrie. Tell us everything you can, good or bad, about living with Del."

  The silence lengthened from one minute to two, three. It was broken only by the soft whir of the recorder, then suddenly by the scrape of Zachary's chair as he shifted positions. "How long were you and Del married, Carrie?" he asked softly.

  Beth quickly tamped down the annoyance that flared inside her. She had agreed to Zachary's help on this case, even if she wasn't accustomed to working with someone. That meant cooperating, sharing, relinquishing some of the control that she always enjoyed in her work.

  "Nearly fifteen years."

  "And you have four kids, plus this little one on the way."

  "Yes. Tyler's fourteen, my girl is nine, and the youngest two are six and three."

  "When is the baby due?"

  Carrie laid her hand on her stomach, then shyly looked up. The slight curve of her mouth qualified as a smile, Beth thought, but just barely. Even so, in spite of its hesitance, in spite of the bruises and cuts, it made her look five years younger and ten times prettier. It made her look alive. "In the spring. March."

  Zachary leaned back in the chair. "Right after you and Del got married, you moved to Nashville. Were you happy here?"

  Her smile faded. "No. It's such a big place, and I couldn't find my way around. I used to get lost going home from the grocery store. And I couldn't see my family very often. They couldn't take time away from the farm to come here, and Del … Del didn't much like going to Sweetwater. He said it was nothing but a hick town full of people who would never amount to anything."

  "Do you remember the first time he hit you?"

  Dropping her gaze again, she nodded.

  "Tell us about it."

  "I was pregnant with Tyler. I was tired, and my back was hurting, so I lay down, just for a little while. I didn't mean to fall asleep, but I did. When Del got home, the housework wasn't done and dinner wasn't ready. He pulled me off the sofa, and he slapped me twice." She looked up, first at Zachary, then Beth. "He didn't mean to do it. He just lost his temper, and he was so sorry later. He swore it would never happen again."

  And she had believed him, Beth thought. She still believed, even after killing him, that he had never meant to hurt her. That he was sorry. That each time was the last.

  "But it did happen again," Zachary said quietly. "When?"

  "It was about six months later. He'd lost his job, and he came home drunk. He cut my lip and left bruises around my throat. After that, it was about three months until the next time."

  From the articles she'd read, Beth knew that was typical. Most abused women and their husbands fell into a vicious cycle: the buildup of tension, the release of that tension with physical violence, followed by contrition. Regrets. Promises. If the pattern wasn't broken early, it altered: it took less stress to set the man off, the beatings became more brutal, the contrition was perfunctory at best, and the safe time between cycles diminished. Six months had lapsed between Carrie's first and second beating
s, but only three months between the second and third. By the end of their marriage, the abuse had been a weekly, sometimes daily, occurrence.

  "Why didn't you leave him then, Carrie?"

  The look she gave Zachary was bewildered, as if the idea had never occurred to her at the time. "I loved him," she said simply. "He was my husband."

  "But he was hurting you."

  "He was always sorry for it afterward. Besides, it was just mostly bruises and cuts. They went away. And he was always promising to be better, and…" She broke off, wet her lips, then swallowed hard. "And it was my fault, too. I wasn't doing the things a wife was supposed to do—keeping the house clean enough, taking care of the kids, having dinner ready on time. A wife's supposed to do those things the way her husband wants, and I—sometimes I didn't."

  "A woman has responsibilities in a marriage just as a man does," Zachary disagreed. "But getting beaten because she doesn't fulfill them … that's wrong, Carrie. Del was wrong. It wasn't your fault."

  Rising from his chair, he paced the length of the small room, then leaned against the wall where he could see both women. "Go on, Carrie. Tell us whatever you want. Tell us what happened."

  She spoke haltingly, sometimes beseechingly, as if pleading with them to understand. She talked about the children, about how Del had initially been thrilled with his baby son, but his pleasure had quickly given way to irritation over the baby's crying and the needs that had to take precedence over his own, how he had objected to the expense of formula, diapers and doctors' visits for the child. The pattern had been repeated with Becky's birth five years later—excitement, pleasure, then annoyance—but with the younger two boys, Del's only emotion had been indifference. And when she'd told him she was pregnant a fifth time, he had reacted angrily, violently.

  Zachary looked at Beth while Carrie spoke. She hadn't said anything since she'd started the tape recorder. He wondered if she resented his interference in this interview, if that was why she was holding her hands laced so tightly together in her lap that her knuckles had turned white. Or was it outrage over the story they were hearing, anger toward Del Lewis for being a bastard, or toward Carrie for allowing herself to become a victim? Or was it sympathy for the children, who'd lived all their lives unloved by their father, frightened by his temper and terrified that his rages would one day take their mother from them?

  He suspected it was the latter. Beth was a tough woman. In her job she had to be. She knew what people could do to each other, knew what pain they could inflict, what damage they could cause. But anyone, no matter how tough, had to be touched by tales about children. She had to wonder, as Zachary did, how any man could subject his kids, his own helpless, innocent kids, to the kind of life Del had given his. She had to despise the man if not for what he'd done to his wife, then for the misery he'd brought his children.

  "Why didn't you leave him?" he asked when Carrie finally fell silent. "Why didn't you take the kids and go away?"

  "I couldn't," she said with a helpless shrug.

  "Of course you could. You could have waited until he left for work one morning, then packed and been out of there before he got home that evening."

  For a long moment she slowly shook her head back and forth. "I told him once that I was going to leave. He said that he would find me. He said he would take the kids away from me, that he would tell the judge what kind of wife I was, what kind of mother I was, and the judge would give the kids to him. He said I would never get to see them again." She anchored her hair behind her ears. It made her look more vulnerable. "I'm not real smart, I know that. The only work I know is housework and farmwork, and I can't support five kids at either one. I don't know how to get along with people anymore. I don't have any money. I don't have a car. I don't even have a place to live. What judge in his right mind would let me keep the kids when their daddy, with his house and his job, wanted them?"

  Of course the issue wouldn't have been decided that simply, Zachary thought, but there was no use in pointing it out now. Instead, he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and asked, "Did you ever call the police when he was beating you?"

  "No."

  "Did you ever ask for help from anyone?"

  "Only twice. Once I had to go to Tyler's school—he'd been in trouble—and the counselor saw that something was wrong. She kept asking, but I didn't tell her anything. I couldn't. Finally she gave me a number to call. She said it was a shelter for abused women and that they could help me and the kids." She sat silently for a moment, then took a deep breath. "Del found the number in my purse, and he called to see whose it was. When he found out, he—he almost killed me. I thought he surely would."

  "And the second time?"

  "His folks had come up from Texas for a visit, and I asked his mama to talk to him, to see if she could make him stop." Carrie fell silent again, her head lowered, her shoulders rounded. When she continued, her voice wasn't quite steady. "I had bruises all over, and my eye was swollen shut, and his mama looked me over and said, 'It's not like he really hurt you. Nothing's broken.'"

  Nothing's broken. Zachary gave a disgusted shake of his head. Del was dead, Carrie in jail, the children's lives shattered. Was there enough damage, enough hurt, to satisfy Mrs. Lewis now?

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  Beth sat in the corner booth of a quiet bar, her hands folded loosely on the table. It wasn't even five o'clock yet, but she was tired. She wanted nothing more than to go home, take a long, warm bath, curl up in bed and sleep for the next few months.

  Few of the cases she'd handled had had that effect on her, making her want to hide away from the world until the case was somehow miraculously resolved without her. Sarah Ryan's divorce had been one. It had been impossible to remain cool and detached because of her friendship with Sarah. Because Sarah's husband Brent had been a first-class bastard. Because there had been a child involved, a tiny little boy named Tony who was dying, a sweet loving child whose father wanted nothing to do with him. Did Brent know his son had died one warm June day? she wondered. Did he even care?

  "You look grim." Zachary slid onto the leather bench across from her, folding his coat into the corner.

  "I was thinking about Sarah and Tony."

  He acknowledged that with a simple nod. He knew all the details, knew that Sarah's first marriage and divorce had, indeed, been grim.

  "So…" She smiled politely as the waitress set their drinks before them. Apparently Zachary was no more of a drinker than she was. He'd ordered a soda to her sparkling water. She liked that. "What do you think?"

  His grin came quickly. It was wide and even and crinkled the corners of his too-blue eyes. "That's a broad question. Am I supposed to read your mind to narrow it down, or can I choose any subject that comes to my mind?"

  "About Carrie. About this case. About strategy. Pleas. Deals."

  "What kind of deal would the district attorney offer?"

  "On a murder case this controversial?" Beth shook her head. "Probably a lousy one. The DA himself will probably handle this case. He'll want to make an example of Carrie. He'll want all battered women in Tennessee to understand that they can't take the law into their own hands. He'll go for the toughest sentence he can get."

  "So if we have a hard-line prosecutor, what are our chances?"

  She sipped her water, savoring the faint tang of lime, and listened to the silent echoes of his question. We. Our. She had worked cases with other lawyers before, but she had always been one-hundred percent in control; the others were there only for assistance, and they had understood perfectly that the case was hers. She wasn't sure if she liked this new sharing. It meant she wasn't totally in charge anymore … but it also meant she wasn't totally responsible, either. If they lost, she would have someone to share the defeat. If they won, she would have someone to share in the victory celebration.

  And what a celebration that could be, she thought, stealing a look at Zachary.

  Foldin
g her hands together again, she slowly answered his question. "I guess our chances depend on the jury. Too many people still believe that it's all right for a man to hit his wife to keep her in line. Too many others believe that a woman who is beaten must have done something to deserve it, or even that she enjoyed it. Others won't be able to understand why Carrie didn't just leave. That's where our defense might run into trouble. Our expert witnesses are going to get up there on the stand and tell the jurors that all the years of being physically and emotionally abused left Carrie helpless and hopeless, so demoralized that she couldn't take any action to improve the situation, such as leaving Del. And the prosecutor's going to point out that this helpless, hopeless woman who couldn't do anything somehow managed to put a knife through her husband's heart."

  "I'm glad that's your problem and not mine."

  She smiled faintly. "Depending on the jury, we might make it your problem. A man's opinion still holds more weight at times than a woman's. Seeing a man who is clearly sympathetic to Carrie might influence some jurors. At the very least, it should balance the male prosecutor who wants to hang her." With a shrug she finished the water in front of her. "If we get a decent jury we should do all right."

  But "all right" in this case, she silently admitted, wasn't likely to be an acquittal. She would be satisfied with a conviction on the lesser charge of manslaughter, which might include a suspended sentence or only a few years in prison. It wouldn't be the freedom Carrie—and Zachary—wanted, but it would be better than spending the rest of her life in prison.

  "How are you going to handle this?" she asked. "Will you be staying in town or driving back and forth?"

  "Right now I'm planning to stay here a couple of nights a week. Later, who knows?"

  By "later," he meant when his money ran out, Beth knew. She thought briefly, guiltily, that she should offer him … what? A salary? An expense account? Either of those would be difficult to get past the partners, especially when the whole purpose of his helping was to cut back on the firm's losses on this case. Maybe a place to stay? One of the numerous empty bedrooms in her condo? Not likely. If she had already figured out that working with Zachary was a mistake, how badly would she compound it by inviting him to move into her home?